


To Hell and Back

by Luminous_Bluebell



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Other characters: The Green Fairy, There is Absinthe personified, i'm not even sorry, no really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-30
Updated: 2013-03-30
Packaged: 2017-12-06 23:11:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/741269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luminous_Bluebell/pseuds/Luminous_Bluebell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Here’s an even better idea,” said Grantaire. “How about I take on eight of your hellish host? For each one of you I outdrink, you release a name on my list back into the land of the living.”</p><p>“You have yourself a wager,” said the Devil. “Who will we be starting with? This— Enjolras?”</p><p>“Let’s save him for last,” said Grantaire. “I’ll get to him.”</p><p>Or: Grantaire survives the barricades and marches down into the underworld to bring all of Les Amis back to life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Hell and Back

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this image prompt on Tumblr (playthatsadtrombone is the best artist ever ok?)  
> http://playthatsadtrombone.tumblr.com/post/43593745561/heres-an-even-better-idea-said-grantaire-how

He awoke in the Corinthe much as he usually did –moisture from his breath causing his cheek to stick to the hard, rough wood of the table, bottle centimeters away from his outstretched hand even as he was surrounded by empty mugs.

 

The familiar confusion that falls just after one has risen from sleep had just been shaken off, and as he took in his surroundings he noted with an unpleasant chill that the only other entity taking up residence in the widow Hucheloup’s establishment was an eerie silence. Steadying himself, he took a swig from the bottle to alleviate the headache threatening to split open his skull, and steady his sudden nerves.

He rose from his seat, and as he did he remembered the exact events that had transpired the night before – the barricade.

With a start, he looked to the floor, where bits of wood dust and splinters littered the ground, accompanying the scorch marks, bullet holes, and deep red stains – blood. Following the trail to the opposite end of the room, he suddenly felt the floor being ripped from under him. There, leaning against the wall, head bowed, was his mighty Apollo. Enjolras.

There had been a battle. How many of them had died? As he wandered the first floor of the Corinthe, accompanied by the oppressive lingering silence, he had his answer. There, laid side by side on the floor, were his friends. Not a single one had survived past morning. Not one.

 “ - _you are incapable of believing, of thinking, of wishing, of living, and of dying.”_

_“You shall see.”_

He nearly retched at the sight, at the thought. He had genuinely thought – _believed_ – that he was going to die somehow or the other that night. Caught by a stray bullet, bayonetted by a guard. _Something._ And yet here he stood, just as useless as the months leading to the barricades, just as incapable and unworthy. And yet he was right. He always was. He gave a small smirk – though the delayed grief had twisted it into something of a grimace. Because he was right, but so was Enjolras, and he couldn’t say he particularly enjoyed either truth. Both had meant that he failed, and they failed, and that there really was no hope.

What happened after he encountered the bodies, their corpses would be as lost to you and I as they were to him. He wandered the streets, waiting for the sight of an inn or café, so he may answer the siren song of his green fairy.

“You there, sir.” Well, he did not mean that literally.

He turned in the direction of the voice, and standing in front of him was a rather odd sight. She was a slender, graceful woman with a head of gorgeous golden curls. All the grace and beauty of someone wealthy, and yet she was here, in the garb of a grisette. “You are called Grantaire, yes?” He frowned in puzzlement, and yet responded in affirmation nonetheless. Her face lit up, and he seemed to see around her a rather unearthly glow. “Oh thank goodness. It’s your friends. They need you.” To this he gave a dry, bitter laugh, and hollowly quipped to her that the only friends he had were now lost.

With a terrible look that would rival one of Enjolras when incensed, she responded. “Yes, I know. That’s why they need you.” What she was losing in patience he was gaining in apathy. Which was why he was incredibly confused when she held out a hand to him. “Just come with me. I’ll explain on the way.” Stunned into silence, he cautiously grabbed her hand, and then everything went dark.

* * *

 

When he came to, he noticed he was sitting on the rather cold ground. Someone offered him a hand, and he reached for it, as he had a bit of a difficult time maintaining balance enough to stand. “It would appear your friends have landed themselves in somewhat of a predicament.” He looked around, and at a single glance he would think this was Paris but… something was off. The buildings were dirtier, more corroded. And the streets looked absolutely filthy.  Noting his confused expression, the grisette continued. “I’m afraid they’ve ended up in Hell.”

At the mention of his friends, something seemed to spark in him. A determination of sorts. “Where are they?” He nearly demanded, fear giving his voice a hint of authority.

The grisette gave a sad smile as her piercing blue eyes gazed into his. “Where do you suppose?”

And almost as if his realization needed confirmation, the explosion of cannons sounded in a nearby street. It would seem that his friends had never left the barricade.

* * *

 

Sneaking into the friendly side of the barricade proved to be only too easy, as it was exactly the same as the one that had been cleared away some time before he’d gained consciousness. Once there, he realized… what was he to do? How would he even go about rescuing his friends from their eternal prison?

He saw the girl – Éponine – get shot again, this time with no Marius to comfort her, and he blanched. Perhaps this Corinthe would have spirits enough for him to sort out what he was to do. Enjolras glared at him yet again as he slipped in through the doorway of the building, disappointing wine cask that he was.

What he saw inside would possibly have him laughing for days on end. A rather well dressed man with skin tinged orange and a rather large set of protruding horns was tending, it would seem, to the bar. He instead snickered, realizing that the caricatures he’d drawn on his book in Sunday school were so much closer to the real thing than he could have possibly imagined. Those on the other side of the bar, then, would be his devils.

The man looked on Grantaire and frowned. “You are not a dead man.” Grantaire shrugged his shoulders in a non-committal gesture. “Why are you here, then?”

“Why else would I be looking for alcohol?” He couldn’t resist at least one jibe. “To have a drink!”

Lucifer shared a conspiratorial glance with one of his legion, a slender man who had been leaning over the counter. He then took one glance outside and gave a twisted grin. “This is about your friends, isn’t it? The ones just outside?” He cackled. “And you, cask, you intend to free them, don’t you?”

Grantaire attempted to square his shoulders, stood up taller. There was a dull fire behind his eyes that was just beginning to burn. “That would be terribly ambitious of me.”  

“Very well. Pick any one, then.” He slid Grantaire a leaf of paper and a charcoal. “In exchange for the life of the one you choose, you stay here.”

His finger twitched, and instinctively, he began to write the name of his Apollo, of Enjolras. Halfway through, he stopped. If this worked his way, he could manage to free all his friends, plus satisfy his need for drink. “Here’s an even better idea”, he spoke as he scrawled down the names of each and every one of his friends in a sudden flurry. The devil gave a condescending scoff, “How about I take on eight of your hellish host? For each one of you I outdrink, you release a name on my list back into the land of the living. If I fail to outdrink all eight, you keep me. If all your eight lose, I leave with all eight of my friends.”

The Devil let out a barking laugh, and leveled Grantaire a sinister glance. “You have yourself a wager.” He nonchalantly glanced at the list of names, scanning to see for whom this man would give himself. Who will we be starting with? This— Enjolras?”

Grantaire surprisingly held his tongue. He would gladly give himself for Enjolras, yes, but if he could not save the others, he would never consider himself worthy. “Let’s save him for last,” he said coolly. “I’ll get to him.”

The Devil raised a quizzical eyebrow at him, even as he poured the first drink. “Are you sure?”

Grantaire raised the glass in a mock toast and brought the glass to his lips. “Absolutely.”

“Well, if you insist, then,” the Devil motioned to the first of his group and began to set out the drinks. “We’ll start with the girl – Éponine.”

* * *

 

If there was one thing that the Devil had ever underestimated, it was Grantaire’s capacity for drink. When night had fallen upon the barricade, Bossuet had mentioned to Grantaire that there might be a hole in his stomach, as the man had taken into his company two lovely bottles of absinthe with which to spend the night. Granted, he drank himself into a coma, but he did finish those bottles.

Needless to say, Grantaire’s tolerance level became apparent after the fourth person he’d competed against slumped face-first into the table, and the glasses on his end of the table piled. He was just barely starting to sway in his seat, but personal determination and the fact that this was free booze and probably the most fun he’d ever had pushed him to continue.

After the sixth man he conceded that _maybe_ he was drunk.

After the seventh had gone down and the Devil himself sat opposite, he would have probably started seeing pink elephants had he not remembered.

The last one. Enjolras.

He smirked lopsided at the Devil and as soon as they had been told to start, he tore off like a rocket, sucking down the burning liquid like a vacuum. It had long passed the point where he could feel the burn, or even the actual presence of a drink.

Five glasses touched his lips in this manner.

Then ten.

After twelve, the Devil slowed.

At fifteen, the Devil practically threw in the towel. Grantaire, busy with his seventeenth shot, had hardly noticed. He gave Grantaire the stoniest glare he could muster while at the same time completely unsure exactly how this small mortal man could outdrink not only him, but also seven others.

When Grantaire realized that he literally out-drank the Devil himself, he slammed the glass down on the table and looked at the horned man with glistening eyes. “Ah, don’t worry” he slurred casually as he patted Lucifer on the arm. “Better luck next time.” He gave in to raucous laughter at the sight of the Devil himself actually _sulking_ and staggered outside to somehow rescue his friends from the barricade.

* * *

 

How they were all returned, and to the Corinthe of all places, would forever remain a mystery, but he absolutely could not describe how relieved he was to wake up again, slumped over the same table, to the excited murmurs of his friends, and the exasperated sigh of their fearless leader as Grantaire slept off the drink _yet again._ And oh, was the hangover worth it.


End file.
